Experiments
by FaroreWorldshaper
Summary: Regarding the several experiments done by Sherlock Holmes. Because it's socially acceptable to tie-die tee shirts with blood, right? NOTE-Updates irregularly. Sorry.
1. Regarding the Tie-Die Tees

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

John came home one day in a good mood. It was bright, sunny, and had been an easy day at the clinic. He felt like nothing could ruin his day. That's when he stepped into the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room. His hands were covered with latex gloves which had turned red, and two large vats stood in front of him. They were full of a red liquid. Perhaps the strangest thing was the amount of white tee shirts, neatly folded in stacks on the couch. For a little while, John stood stunned. Then he asked, "Sherlock… what are you doing?" Sherlock looked up. "Oh, John! Hello! I'm tie-dyeing some shirts with blood and some with red dye. I'm looking for the differences between the colors." he explained cheerily. John had stopped listening at _blood. _"Sherlock… where did you get enough blood to dye shirts?! Why are you tie-dyeing shirts with _blood? _Have you got any on the carpet?"Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, John, it's not a big deal! I got the blood from St. Bart's. It's for the case-you remember how the dentist we spoke to had a strangely large amount of red tie-die shirts? I believe he is the killer, and tie-dyed his shirts in his victim's blood-hence, this experiment. Also," he added, "I've been careful not to get any on the carpet. Mrs. Hudson _would _definitely kill me otherwise." Slightly relieved that his flat mate wasn't a vampire/serial killer, John walked over and peered in the vat, seeing several rubber-banded tees. "So, what's the difference so far?" "I've hung some outside to dry; let's go see them. Wait here a moment!" With that final remark, Sherlock took off his gloves, tossed them at John, and sprang upstairs. He returned with a notebook covered in red handprints. "Sherlock," John said very quietly, "Do not throw blood-covered latex gloves at me. Ever." "Not good?" "Really not good, yeah." Sherlock didn't look repentant at all, but shrugged and said, "You didn't get it on the carpet, did you?"

John sighed and closed his eyes. When they were open again, Sherlock had already sprung downstairs. John followed.

Later that day, after the killer had been brought in, John had went back to the flat to find that all the tie-die shirts were gone; he thought nothing of it.

For Christmas that year, everyone Sherlock knew received a red tie-die tee shirt. No one really knew why John was laughing his head off, why Sherlock was smirking, or why those who Sherlock disliked received tees with a slightly different hue of red.

**Do you think Sherlock would have given his friends the blood shirts, or his enemies?**

**Prompts for future experiments welcome! Please review.**


	2. Regarding the Clams

**Disclaimer: I own nothing at all.**

**Here's why John missed a whole Wednesday once.**

Sherlock was making dinner Tuesday night. John found this out near the tail end of his shift, when he received a text from the consulting detective- _Are you allergic to shellfish?-SH_

He was at first rather puzzled by this, but decided to respond anyways. _No, why do you ask? _he replied. He got a response quickly. _I'm making dinner tonight.-SH _John looked at this for a moment, then laughed. He was fairly certain Sherlock making dinner would be very amusing, so he typed back, _I'll be sure to be back in time. _He chuckled to himself as he put his phone away. Sherlock making shellfish! He would have to be prepared to order Chinese if he saw smoke from a block away.

When John got home that evening, there was no smoke pouring out of 221B. He raised his eyebrows as he unlocked the door-something actually smelled pretty tasty. He walked into the dining room and stopped. "Wow, Sherlock, you… made this? All by yourself?" On the table was a serving dish with clams in what appeared to be a red sauce. It smelled _fabulous. _Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, in his 'thinking' pose on a chair. "Yes." "I didn't know you knew how to cook…" John trailed off and sat down. Sherlock then seemed to snap out of whatever reverie he was in, saying "Sit down. Here, let me serve you." John was startled by Sherlock's… kindness. But Sherlock didn't do nice, right? "Uh, sure?" was all he said.

Sherlock served two plates of food, serving John first. He seemed to be watching John carefully, and John realized he was probably looking for feedback to the food. "It's fabulous, Sherlock." It really was, especially the clams. Sherlock smiled for the briefest of moments. "So… why did you cook dinner?" John had really been wondering this, and it seemed like a good way to keep out an awkward silence. Sherlock shrugged, seeming nonchalant. "I was bored." That seemed like the only answer John would get, so he just kept eating. He suddenly realized, Sherlock hadn't touched his food. "Why aren't you eating, Sherlock? You made it-so you know that it's not like it's poisoned or anything," he joked.

Then had a horrible thought.

"Sherlock… You didn't…"

The last thing he saw before passing out was Sherlock's slightly guilty face.

Sherlock had been thinking, mulling over his latest case. It frustrated him to no end. He couldn't tell how the hallucinatory drug the murderer had used actually affected people without a patient. He probably wouldn't be able to make records if he tried it on himself, and John would be no help… _John! That's it!_

Sherlock was rather good at making food; he had learned once while undercover at a fancy French restaurant how to make stellar clams. So, the plan was fairly easy-_make recipe, dilute liberal amounts of powdered drug into red sauce, add John Watson, take notes. _Easy enough. Only when John actually toppled over, paralyzed by the drug's effects, did he realize he probably should have asked before putting John into an experiment. _Oops. Oh well. _He quietly cleared the table, cleaned the kitchen, then dragged John onto the couch and retrieved his notebook he used for experiments on drugs (Cocaine and heroine were the only recreational drugs, the rest were from 'proper' experiments). After two hours and a half from the time of ingestion, he noticed John was stirring. Suddenly he opened his eyes. "Nnrgh… Mrglfrghn…" his pupils were dilated and he had trouble moving his mouth. "John, what do you see?" he asked softly. "Xgllthl… prmmlk… pink…" he mumbled. "Pink… elephants…" Sherlock recorded everything, the entire conversation he had, as well as physical side effects (trembling hand, paralysis, etc.) and the emotions he seemed to display. Over the course of the night, he found that the subject seemed to experience euphoria, as well as hallucinations of fantastical creatures and scenarios and drowsiness. By the time morning came, he had a list of effects the drug had on a participant. He was slightly anxious when John hand't yet recovered by the time sunlight was streaming through the window.

But he had made a new discovery. "Light…" muttered John. "It's… mrmph…waaaay too bright…" he tried to put his hand over his eyes, but the paralysis prevented that. Sherlock, interested, grabbed his notebook again. "What else does the light do, John?"

By four o'clock in the afternoon, Sherlock had made several interesting discoveries. Yes, the subject retained some memory, but mostly happy ones. The light, however, triggered negativity in the subject, and John even hallucinated about Afghanistan for a short time. The subject would answer any questions it was asked truthfully, though sometimes it couldn't recall the memory. It was approximately half-past four when John suddenly went unconscious again. He was either asleep or just unconscious for most of the time after that, waking and being almost lucid around eight. At eight forty-five, he fell back to sleep, and Sherlock realized the drug had finally run it's course. _He ought to wake up around midnight, _he thought.

John was trundled into bed, a bucket placed by his bedside and some other clues that would suggest John had been sick abed were put into place. Sure enough, the next morning, John lumbered downstairs, looking puzzled. "Sherlock? What happened?" Sherlock looked up from the newspaper and rolled his eyes. _"Finally. _You must have had a bad reaction to the food-sick as a dog all night, and in a rather nasty state the next day." Sherlock made a show of being exasperated; John took the bait. "Wait… what d'you mean, the next day?" Sherlock looked up, folding the newspaper. "I mean, John, it's Thursday. D'you remember anything of Wednesday?" John looked shocked, and baffled. "Blimey, a whole day? Hmm… No, I really don't recall anything." Sherlock made a mental note to himself to record this in the notebook as he raised his eyebrows. "You're lucky, then," he sighed, "I'm still trying to delete all the _puking. _Ugh." John looked embarrassed. "…Well, thanks for looking after me. Bad clams, eh?" He then promptly went to make tea in the kitchen.

John never did suspect the reason why Sherlock suddenly knew the solution to the case, and Sherlock never thought telling him was important.

**Wow… this took longer than I thought.**

**Please review! Prompts welcome! Thoughts, criticism, all of it.**


	3. Regarding the Horrible Pick-Up Lines

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

John considered himself a morning person. You had to be, in the military. And as long as he had a good cup of tea, it really wasn't that bad. One morning, he was having breakfast when Sherlock, _finally _awake, wandered downstairs in nothing but a sheet. "Any cases?" he asked hopefully. There hadn't been for the past week. "No," said John sympathetically. Sherlock huffed and started towards the cupboard. "You won't find my gun," he added as an afterthought. Sherlock swore. "And no potentially lethal experiments!" John called as his flatmate stomped to the kitchen.

Later that day, there had still been no case, and John was watching telly. Suddenly Sherlock looked up. "John?" "Hm?" John asked absentmindedly. "Is there wi-fi in here? Because I'm feeling a connection." John took five seconds to process this. Then: _"What?! _No, no no no NO, I'm not gay! I'm sorry Sherlock, but-" Sherlock cut off his ramblings. "John, it's okay. I'm doing a non-lethal experiment, as per your request." "Ohhh…" John was now blushing. "I see." "Right, thank you for your participation. I'm going to St. Bart's." Sherlock announced and swished off with a dramatic flourish of his coat. John, still slightly confused, just sat there and blinked for a bit.

Sherlock walked into Bart's, spying Molly immediately. "Molly! Are you an angel, because you look like you fell out of Heaven!" Molly choked on her coffee. "Wha-Sher-Wha-Eh?!" She fainted. An explanation later, Sherlock was still concerned. He called John. "John, I think I broke Molly." "Oh no, you didn't do your experiment on her!" "Well, of course I did!" John sighed. "Just hand me over to her. Molly? It's me, John. Sherlock's just doing a nasty experiment. Sorry if he…" "It'sokayIwasjustsurprised!" Molly said quickly. John sighed. "Sorry about him." Molly then handed the phone back to Sherlock, who then hung up. "Right, thanks for your participation, Molly. I'm off to the Yard." Molly just blinked as Sherlock swept out. "…Did he just thank me?"

Sherlock swept into Scotland Yard and went up to Lestrade's office. He was on the phone, and Sherlock waited. "Yeah, I'll make sure. Bye." He hung up. "Oh, Sherlock… Sorry, no cases." Sherlock then spoke. "Were you in Boy Scouts, because you tied my heart in a knot!" Lestrade looked at him for a second, then fell out of his chair laughing. Sherlock smirked as he gave him a hand to get back up. "Oh…Ohmigod…" Sally Donovan walked by. "Sir? You okay?…Oh, it's the Freak." Sherlock looked at her and said, "Hey, are you tired? Because you've been running through my mind all day." Sally just stood there for about a minute, then ran away screaming. Sherlock nodded. "Well, I think I've collected enough data." Lestrade was still laughing when Sherlock walked out. "Her face… Sherlock, her face…"

…**Yeah.**

**3 chapters and no reviews? Come on, pleeeease? At least please someone tell me if I should continue this story, please.**

**Prompts always welcome!**


	4. Regarding the Tapioca

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Sherlock.**

John was going home after getting groceries at Tesco's. He was curious as to why Sherlock had told him to get so much instant tapioca, but figured that it was a good thing he was at least going to eat _something_. Sherlock wasn't home when he got in, but Mrs. Hudson had said she was making biscuits so he didn't wonder too much. John just put away the food and raided Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, which were very tasty. He had just settled down to a book he had been reading and a biscuit when the door banged open. "Did you get what I asked for?" John could hear Sherlock's voice, even though he hadn't looked up yet. "Yep." "Good," his flatmate muttered and went into the kitchen.

When in the kitchen, Sherlock opened the brown paper bag he had with him. He pulled out a hand and a liver from it, and placed them on the counter. "Where did you put the tapioca?" he called. "Cupboard," was the reply. He opened the cupboard, got out one of the boxes of instant tapioca, and set about making some. After making a batch, he put on his safety goggles, grabbed his blowtorch and set to work.

John was almost done with a chapter when he started to notice the smell. It at first smelled like yummy tapioca. Then burning tapioca. Then burning flesh. Then burning flesh mixed with burning tapioca. At this point there was smoke coming from the kitchen. "Sherlock, you alright?" John asked. He went into the kitchen-not a great idea in retrospect. Sherlock had his shirt collar over his nose and safety goggles on his eyes as he blowtorched a human hand coated in tapioca. John could only think of one thing to say as he coughed from the fumes.

"What the bloody _hell, _Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced up, then continued focusing his attention on… on _whatever _that was. In five minutes, apparently it was finished, as he turned off the blowtorch and set it down. He then sat down, and proceeded to poke, prod, stretch, and snap the dessert-encrusted hand, writing everything down in that journal of his-the one with bloody handprints. John sighed, gave up, and walked away. He _really _needed some fresh air after that horrible smell.

**Poor, poor John…**

**Prompts always welcome!**


	5. Regarding the Fox

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. Not me.**

**This was a prompt by Detective Silence, and I just had to do it. Thank you for the idea!**

John awoke one morning to a loud crash.

Not that this was an uncommon occurrence in the flat of 221B; but hearing a muffled yip definitely was. _Did… did Sherlock bring a dog home? _John's sleepy mind wondered blearily. He went downstairs, still in his sleep clothes, and stopped dead at the sight.

A small red fox was running around the living room. It seemed to have knocked over an armchair, which now lay on it's side in the floor. It was now limping slightly, but running to and fro like it was insane. Perhaps the funniest part was Sherlock, perched like a bird _on top of _the settee, fingers steepled in front of his face as he watched the fox's movements, occasionally jotting down a quick note in his notebook. John watched, speechless, for some time near the top of the stairs before realizing his mouth was open and quickly closing it. Then opened it again.

"Sherlock… what the actual _hell?"_

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the animal running around inside their flat. "Ah. John. You're awake?" "Well… yeah, there was a crash." "I must admit it was surprising," Sherlock continued, craning his neck to look at the fox as it tried to dig through the rug, "Henry is usually much less clumsy." Two things from this sentence registered in John's mind, and he decided to focus on the more pressing one.

"Okay, _usually? _Sherlock, exactly how long has… Henry been here?" At this Sherlock looked up. "You mean you haven't noticed?" John shook his head slowly, unsure what to think. Sherlock looked back at Henry, who was now trying to maul the capsized armchair. "Eight days, counting today. I keep him in my room when you're here. When you're at your _dull _job, I experiment with him either in the flat or at Scotland yard." He gave one of his terrifying smirks. _"That _was very fun. I was fairly certain Anderson was going to faint."

"…How the _bloody _hell did you bring a _fox _into _Scotland Yard? _Actually, how'd you get a fox in here? Without me noticing? And _who gave you a fox?" _John was already bewildered, annoyed and confused-and he hadn't even got his tea yet, dammit!

"I took the Tube. Up the stairs. You were probably asleep. And Animal Control owes me a favor." Sherlock answered all of his questions in order with short sentences. Then looked at John. "Henry won't hurt you, you know. I'll have tea if you're making some." He then looked at Henry, who was sniffing a patch of carpet and pawing at it. He looked sharply at this, then quickly scribbled notes without looking away from Henry for a second.

"…" John just gave up and went to make some tea, hoping his life would make more sense after he did. Unfortunately it didn't, as he walked back into the living room with a cuppa for Sherlock only to find him on his knees wrestling with the fox.

Wrestling. With. A wild. Bloody. Fox.

John was ready to grab his gun right there, but Sherlock called to him, "I'd be greatly obliged if you didn't shoot Henry, John. He's my only specimen." John put the tea down and raised his hands in defeat. _You know what? _he thought. _Forget all this. I'm going to work now, dammit!_

When he got home, Henry was no longer in sight and the living room had been fixed. John sat down next to Sherlock, who was thinking. "So… where's Henry?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him. "Oh? Lestrade didn't text you?" John shook his head. "I left him in his office. This is the last experiment; after Mycroft sends me the video feeds, Henry's going back into the wild. John thought about this. Then: "Wait, Mycroft is working _with _you?" This time Sherlock looked directly at him. "I bribed him with cake." he said. And smirked.

They were still laughing when Sherlock's phone started ringing.

**I'm not sorry. At all.**

**Please review! Prompts welcome!**


	6. Regarding the Snakes

**ALIVE! Yes, I am alive, and here's a new chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I really don't own Sherlock. I promise.**

John was at home, reading a book called _Lost and Found. _He found it on the discount shelf in a bookstore, and it was actually a very interesting book. He was just turning the page when his phone rang. He marked his page, and answered it, noticing the caller.

"Greg?" he asked. "Hi." the other man answered, sounding _extremely _annoyed. "D'you mind telling me why Anderson's babbling about a dead snake in the water cooler?"

John blinked. Then sighed, pinching his nose between his fingers. "I'll call you right back, okay?" he said. Without waiting for an answer, he hung up. He turned and looked at his flatmate, who was currently sitting on the floor surrounded by newspapers, old and new. He was muttering to himself, though John couldn't make out the words.

"Hey, Sherlock?" he called. He had to repeat it a few times before his flatmate heard him. "Yes, what is it John?" said flatmate asked impatiently.

"…I thought you'd cleaned up your latest experiment?" John asked. Sherlock grinned evilly and John sighed.

_Earlier that day_

Sherlock had somehow recruited John into helping with his latest experiment, which was to take place at New Scotland Yard. John was the one carrying the large duffel bag that smelled slightly. Sherlock was holding his blood-stained notebook. _And this is a fair distribution of labor how? _John couldn't help but wonder.

Once they were inside the elevator, Sherlock turned to John. "You can put the bag down now." he said offhandedly.

"You're welcome," John grumbled quietly enough so he wouldn't hear. Sherlock crouched down and unzipped the suitcase, to reveal-

_"WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET THOSE THINGS SHERLOCK, WHAT ARE THEY DOING HERE DID I REALLY JUST CARRY THAT IN THE TUBE?!"_

Inside the bag were the corpses of at least fifty dead snakes. Some were remarkably large; some John identified as poisonous, and some he couldn't identify.

"…Okay. What are you planning to do with a large amount of dead snakes?" John said once he had calmed down. Sherlock stared at him.

"A new experiment, of course. Mrs. Hudson has temporarily banned all chemicals which produce noxious fumes from the flat, so I decided to try my latest idea at Scotland Yard."

John stared at him for a while. Then closed his eyes, sighing and rubbing his nose. "Alright, whatever. Just don't involve me in any of this, all right?" Sherlock nodded. "You can take the elevator down once I get up there. You have been most helpful," he added as an afterthought, "But I won't need you for this anymore."

John waited in the elevator while Sherlock hoisted the duffel out of the elevator, punching the button that would take him back to the first floor. He officially washed his hands of this whole business.

Sherlock carried the duffel into a nearby supply closet, opening it once more. He looked at the sixty-two snake corpses, considering. _Which first, and where?_

Sergeant Sally Donovan was getting a coffee from the machine in the shared kitchen. But when she was pouring it from the heavy metal pot into a styrofoam cup, something _thunked _up against the side and blocked the flow. She frowned, unscrewing the lid of the pot. And nearly vomited.

Inside the coffee pot was a large, dead snake with red and yellow markings. She heard snickering somewhere nearby, though she couldn't pinpoint the location.

She was going to _kill _Sherlock Holmes.

Those working in forensics were more than slightly put off when they saw a black garter snake _nailed _to the top of the water cooler. There was another one, a red spitting cobra, inside the water cooler tank. It was bloated in death, bobbing up and down inside the tank. Anderson actually fainted.

Lestrade was seriously unamused. There were _dead snakes _in all of the water coolers, as well as the coffee machines, on his floor. And of course Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

He took a deep breath, and dialed John's phone.

**HEY! New chapter finally up!**

**I know that this was sort of weird, but I'm just trying to get back into the groove of writing these again. And the mental image of Lestrade facepalming at a dead snake nailed to the top of a water cooler was too good to pass off. Thank you so much, Guest. Your review plus prompt was basically what inspired this.**

**Reviews and experiment ideas are always welcome!**


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